Flairer
by littleblackdog
Summary: She was the same woman now as then; the same bitter she-wolf who'd denied him both his vengeance and his freedom... and he was a twit who had been living as a monk for too long. It was foolishness. Awakening spoilers; Orlesian Warden. Nathaniel/F!Caron
1. Chapter 1

This was a horrible, filthy country— forever damp, reeking of rubbish and dog, and everyone hated her the moment she opened her mouth. Somehow, for some reason she couldn't fathom, this was a punishment from the Maker himself. Perhaps the Chantry was correct, and she was to be tortured simply for being a mage.

If this was what Fereldans called summer, she was loath to linger until winter. Tugging her robes tighter around her freshly scrubbed body, Magali settled gracefully on a blanket laid out near the fire. She should retire to her tent, rest in preparation for their continuing journey to the Wending Woods, but she could not stomach one more day without a bit of beauty.

The others would snicker, she had no doubt, or leer. She cared not. The three men stank of old sweat and mud (and worse, in the dwarf's case), and the fact that she preferred her skin to be smooth and sweetly scented did not make her less able to flay a darkspawn alive with the power of her will alone. Femininity was not necessarily a forewarning of weakness, as the women of this dismal land would do well to discover.

She had never seen such women— tall and hard, with hair cut brutally short and largely unadorned. Certainly, Orlais had its share of strong women. Her Imperial Majesty was only the most obvious example, but there were others too numerous to count. Yet nearly every one of them maintained a civility and exquisiteness that merely added to her power.

It was unfair to paint all Fereldan women with the same grubby brush, she knew, but from what she had seen their nobles were delicate finches— pretty if somewhat dull plumage but no real bite— and their battle maidens strove to be men. It was discomforting.

Opening her small, intricately carved box, Magali lifted the dark blue bottle with great care. It was unlikely she would be able to replace these items, were something untoward to happen to her small supply. Until she could find a trader who carried Orlesian goods, she would not even be able to properly mix her own. Suddenly, such a trivial thing she had taken for granted seemed so delicate and precious.

Privacy would have made this more enjoyable, but her tent was thin and the wind was high. No, she would sit by the fire and if any of her new Wardens took issue with it, she knew more than enough curses in their harsh language to rebuke properly.

Oghren had passed out for the evening, only half inside his crookedly pitched tent, and from the deep rumble of his snoring, she assumed he would be dead to the world for some time yet. That left only Anders and Nathaniel to ogle her— her fellow mage would only subject her to the kind of harmless lechery she was accustomed to, and the Howe seemed far too dour to cause much of a fuss. It was not a perfect situation, but it was not the most terrible she'd found herself in that day either.

Her skin already smelled lightly of vanilla and jasmine from her soft goats' milk soap, and she did not relish the thought of running out of _that_. She'd seen what passed for soap in her new home, and while it might be effective at scouring away a few months worth of grime, she was less than eager to try.

She'd slipped her nightdress on under her robes when she'd climbed out of the pleasantly crisp water of the nearby river— the Hafter River, Nathaniel had informed her— and with practiced ease she undid the clasps and slid her arms free of the soft, enchanted fabric. The nightdress was simple, cream coloured linen with a hint of lace at the scooped neckline, but still she heard Anders whistle appreciatively from across the fire.

Rolling her eyes, she did not dignify the exclamation with any other response, nor did she even glance over at the two men as she pulled the stopper free from the blue bottle. More vanilla, with hints of subtle florals and spices alien to these climes, mingled with the warmth of the fire. Pouring a small amount of lotion into her palm, she began to smooth the cool, silky crème over her bare arms.

* * *

The only place in Thedas the Orlesians looked down their collective prissy noses at more often than Ferelden was the Free Marches— something about the barbarous lack of organised government, or so the rumour went. Regardless of the reason, having lived his entire life in one backwater or the other, Nathaniel's exposure to Orlesian culture had been limited. He'd read his history of course, but Fereldan accounts of their former conquerors were invariably biased.

He hadn't been lying when he'd said he had expected Grey Wardens to be more impressive. The four of them who'd managed to manhandle him into that cell had been strong, but not quick enough, and now this woman, their _commander_… Nathaniel didn't know what to think of her.

He'd hated her, at first. She hadn't killed his father herself, but the Wardens had, and it was her bad luck she was the only one within the reach of his ire. That she was curt and condescending and all those foul things he'd been taught to expect from Orlesians was simply fuel on the acrid fire deep in his gut.

But then she'd given him back his effects, along with his grandfather's bow of all things, and he was completely stymied on how he was meant to respond. He'd learned Delilah was alive, and the Commander had ordered them to be on the road to Amaranthine that very day. She was still brusque and sharp, still insisted without any reservation that his father had deserved his fate, but apparently she had some kind of heart as well.

All tolled, it made hating her quite difficult, and Nathaniel was nearly ready to just stop trying.

He was fletching arrows by the firelight, ignoring the animated discussion Anders was having nearby with his troublesome cat, when she returned from her excursion to the river. It was past sunset, dark but not pitch-black, and he was mildly impressed at the softness of her footsteps as she glided back into the glow of camp.

Perhaps she'd been less prickly before all that unpleasant business at the Vigil— he'd heard the battle, the screams and the inhuman roars he now knew were darkspawn. Had the Commander known those Wardens? Had they been her friends?

Had she lost someone important to her in that massacre?

Nathaniel could hardly presume anything about the strange, foreign woman. The only thing he'd been able to deduce thus far was that she was terribly good at surprising him.

Now, for instance. He had begun watching her surreptitiously when she'd returned, but he'd hardly expected anything like this. The fabric of her robes shimmered as it fell away, and for a moment Nathaniel completely forgot he was meant to be covert in his observations. He was reminded sharply, quite literally, when Anders' crude whistle startled him out of his staring and the movement made him nick his thumb just slightly on his hunting knife. There was only a hint of blood, but the pain brought him back to reality.

Orlesian Magister robes hid much, it seemed. She was a… striking woman, and he was a twit who had been living as a monk for too long. Foolishness.

Stamping down his natural but unwelcome reactions, Nathaniel continued carving a nock into the spruce shaft he'd managed to stain with a small red blotch. Then, when the peculiar and uncomfortably alluring smell invaded his nose, he could not help but look up again.

"You bloody tease," Anders was saying, with humour and lechery lacing his words in equal measure. "Did you need someone to get your back, dear lady? I've been told I've got warm hands."

The skin of her slender arms, all smooth and milky pale, was dewy with whatever lotion she was applying, but it was her expression that drew his attention. She looked, for the first time in their acquaintance, _content_.

Surprisingly, she merely smiled at her fellow mage, while her long fingers moved to spread a thin, glistening layer over her shoulders and collarbone. "Ah, but I would not wish Ser Pounce-a-lot to become jealous. Thank you for the selfless offer, however."

Her accent was thick, and her admittedly dulcet tenor had only served to grate on his nerves when she'd first confronted him in his family's former home. She was the same woman now as then, the same bitter bitch who'd denied him both his vengeance and his freedom, but who did not for a moment deny him the self-indulgent whim of visiting the sister he'd been convinced he had lost. This woman, the Commander of the Grey, she spared him the gallows but condemned him to a slower death, all the while gifting him with mementoes and fragments of his former life.

A sister. A bow. A stupid bloody vase that once sat in his mother's salon.

He was slowly being driven mad.

"It's not enough the darkspawn can sense us, I suppose." He hadn't really considered what might come out of his mouth, were he to speak, until he was already talking. Without warning, he was suddenly incredibly irritated. "We are to make certain they can smell us as well. Lovely."

Anders gaped at him. "You— Andraste's lacy white knickers, you're an insane person. Don't listen to him, Commander. Dabbling about with all those poisons has clearly made his brain go soft."

She murmured something in Orlesian, sounding wholly unconcerned, then reached down and slid the hem of her shift up her calves and over her bent knees. Maker's _breath_— "I can indulge myself occasionally," she said in the King's tongue, bending forward to remove her boots and begin rubbing lotion on her slim ankles. "Or I can succumb to homesickness, become as drab as your gloomy countryside, and fall into ill-humour. Considering the options, I have made the sensible choice, yes?"

What had been a promising arrow, with a clear, straight grain running through the shaft, was harshly tossed into the fire. "I've yet to see you be especially sensible, _Commander_."

There wasn't any reason for his anger to flare like this— she'd done nothing but bathe, for goodness' sake. It wasn't as though she were leading them all about the arling on some frivolous jaunt, or insisting on hours to primp and preen as he remembered his mother doing. It was a struggle to bring his breathing back under control when he was drowning in spice and flowers, but he managed. Her relaxed manner barely flickered at his outburst.

"Then you are dull-witted, or simply inattentive. I did not think you an imbecile, but such is life." She was careful to shift her nightdress about, keeping her modesty intact as she stretched out one leg to smooth lotion along the curve of her calf. Nathaniel could not see any hair on her legs, just miles of unblemished flesh. Was it a practice of mages to remove such hair, or perhaps an Orlesian trend? He was certainly not about to ask.

It would make the skin feel softer, he imagined— _no_, he imagined no such thing. He would not imagine _anything_.

Anders snorted with amusement. "Seems _quite_ attentive now, doesn't he? You're, well, you're drooling a bit there, Nathaniel."

"You're delusional," he growled, refusing to rise to the juvenile bait. There was a reasonably sized pile of arrows at his feet, and the pitch had likely hardened enough on the sinews, so he decided to move on to trimming the fletches— a decision that was not influenced at all by the thought he might overpower the scent of her lotion with the stench of burning feathers.

Thankfully, Anders shut his mouth after that, content to sit and leer overtly with that foolish cat curled up sleeping on his chest. Nathaniel hardly cared anymore; he was too busy with real work, _useful_ tasks that would help keep them all from being eaten, Maker willing. Imperfect fletching meant his aim would be off, and that could make the difference between putting an arrow through a genlock's eye instead of through her swanlike neck.

Mages, of course, could hardly understand such _trifling_ things. They could bring down nature's own fury with nothing but a fancy tree branch, or even barehanded. What would she care for dull blades and dried bowstrings?

Running the smouldering stick along the edge of one pale goose feather, feeling the foul, pungent smoke fill his nostrils, Nathaniel tried to lose himself in the unpleasant task.

"Mm," Anders purred eventually, sounding more like a giant cat himself as the night drew in upon them. "In all seriousness, lady, you are a lovely thing."

"Here, perhaps," she said softly, softer than Nathaniel had ever heard her speak. He did not look up from his chore. "In Orlais I am quite plain. Not that your Fereldan women are not pretty, but Orlesians are all like… brightly feathered birds, yes? All elaborate colours and jewels, where I have always preferred to be more simple, if still womanly." Womanly, yes. He'd certainly never met a man, not even an Antivan, with legs quite so... womanly. "It is strange to be away from home, where all is so different. Not terrible, but strange."

He heard Anders shifting about, and the cat's annoyed mewing at the disturbance— without much conscious thought Nathaniel found himself glancing over. Her hair was down.

"Have you never been out of Orlais before?" She looked very different with her hair untied, loose around her face and shoulders. He hadn't really considered how long it must be, to make such a large, neat fist at the nape of her neck, but now that it was free…

She shrugged at Anders' question, rippling the deep copper curls. Very red and very long, spilling down her back, and Nathaniel swallowed thickly. His father would be rolling in his pauper's grave at the thought of his only remaining son taking such a fancy to an Orlesian woman, a mage, and a Grey Warden at that—

But his father was dead, and the twisted monster Rendon Howe had become suffered a traitor's death. A death he deserved. Nathaniel trusted his sister's word more than he trusted a young boy's faded memories of a heroic father. He trusted Delilah's account of a jealous, spiteful man who'd lost himself in the same horrific desires that had put such shadows in their mother's eyes.

Once, not that long ago, he'd prayed every night to be half the man he thought his father was. Now he searched desperately through his own mind for some solid memory to reassure him he hadn't imagined it all.

Magali— the _Commander_— had taken up another small glass bottle, this one squatter and dark green, and was pouring a few drops of what looked like some kind of pale golden oil into her palm. She rubbed the glistening liquid between her hands as she began to speak.

"I spent some time in Jader after my Joining." With ease borne obviously of habit, she stroked her fingers lightly thought the hair at her temples, then carefully pulled the great cascade of it over one shoulder. "That is barely Orlais. But no, this is my first time truly away." Hair was meant to be washed in order to get oil and dirt out of it— it made no sense to add oil after a bath. Still, whatever she was doing seemed to melt away tangles and snares, all the while adding a burnished sheen and yes, another subtle layer of scent to the proceedings.

"I nearly made it to Jader once, the fifth time I escaped the Tower." If the Commander noticed the way Anders had moved a bit closer, she did not react. Nathaniel seethed silently. "I thought I'd try to buy passage on a ship to Nevarra, then disappear up into Tevinter, but I didn't want to risk travelling the trade route. The templars caught me after weeks of freezing my bum off in the Frostbacks, lost and miserable— I was almost glad to be taken back that time."

Rubbing her hands together again, she picked up a simple wooden comb and began dragging it gently though her curls. "You would have been killed long ago in Orlais, I think. Our Chantry laws are rather harsh, especially when Val Royeaux becomes involved."

The thought visibly dampened the man's good humour, at least a bit, and with a small sigh he began to cuddle his cat closer under his chin. "Well, perspective is good, I suppose. What's the Orlesian stance on apostates in the Grey Wardens?"

She laughed quite warmly, which was not an expected reaction by any means. "My mentor in the Order was a powerful maleficar, Serkan. He came from Minrathous, or so he told me. What a handsome man he was." Nathaniel did not trust blood magic, and he knew Anders was at least somewhat discomforted by the concept as well. The Commander spoke of maleficarum as if they were ordinary people… _handsome_ people. "So long as those of us on the wrong side of the Chantry keep to the smaller cities, there is rarely any trouble. It helps that Her Holiness the Divine would like to imagine the Wardens do not exist at all, especially the mages."

Nathaniel realised too late that he'd been watching the exchange intently, the smouldering stick in his hand having long burnt out to nothing. He could smell vanilla and flowers again, and it tweaked at faint, happy memories deep in his mind. He remembered the servants sneaking him sweet cakes after he'd been banished from a feast for speaking out of turn, letting him sit near the hearth in the kitchen to keep warm rather than return to his lonely bedchamber. Adria's hair had smelled like flowers sometimes, especially in summer, and she would always hold him close after he scraped his knees bloody climbing trees, even as she scolded him.

Damn it all, he'd met lyrium-addled dwarves whose minds didn't wander so easily. He needed to concentrate.

"But you're not a blood mage, Magali," Anders said, his voiced tinged with questions, and Nathaniel found himself wishing fervently that she would finally snap and take the man to task for prying. He knew there was a thorny harridan lurking somewhere inside her.

She was still combing her hair slowly, and Nathaniel felt something clench in his gut at the way her neck arched and her eyes fluttered closed. "No," she replied. "It is not a path I would take willingly, though if necessity demanded such a sacrifice… _Alors_, I am a Grey Warden, after all."

Fine, if this was how it was to be, he had a few inquiries of his own. For reasons he was unwilling to examine, he needed to see if she were as amenable to answering _him_ as she was Anders.

"How long have you been a Grey Warden, Commander?" he asked quite civilly, leaning in to relight his stick in the fire. Regardless of anything else, he still had a half dozen unfinished arrows waiting beside him.

Now she looked at him, while his earlier rudeness hadn't even earned him a glance. He felt pinned by her sharp, icy blue gaze, and almost burned his hand. She was dangerous, and he was a horse's arse.

"Nearly five years." Something hardened behind her eyes as she stared him down. "And before you begin being snide, I will remind you that your Hero of Ferelden had been a Warden for not even two years when he ended your civil war and slew an archdemon. I was recruited because I was already quite formidable, and that has not changed."

Having rediscovered even a hint of her caustic side brought him no satisfaction, and he shook his head carefully. "I was not going to be snide," he murmured, picking up an arrow. "And unless the Wardens make a habit of recruiting children, I hardly expected you to have a decade or more under your belt." Goose feather curled and smoked, and he could still feel the weight of her attention, unwavering even as Anders attempted to break the tension with some off-colour joke.

By the time he finished his task, smoothing the last of the neatly trimmed feathers with his scabbed thumb, the camp had grown quiet again. One cautious lift of his head, and he saw her deftly plaiting her hair, twisting it into a thick copper cord trailing down her spine. The result was softer than usual, with a few tendrils still framing her face, but he had no doubt she would be her familiar dour self by the time they packed camp the next morning.

_This_ Magali was some other animal entirely, and Nathaniel could feel a headache brewing between his brows.

* * *

_AN: This is the first of two, possibly three parts. The next chapter is already well underway, and should be up within a week. It's also my first foray into Awakening fiction, so I do hope I've got the voices down. I'm rather fond of Nathaniel, so writing from within his thoughts like this makes me nervous._

_And heads up: before this tale is through, things are going to get sexy. Awwright._


	2. Chapter 2

She knew Kristoff, more through reputation than anything, and though he was her only remaining connection with home, she did not rush to seek him out. Perhaps it was because she knew him, and trusted that he was capable of taking care of himself— she would hardly have appreciated being the focus of an unnecessary rescue mission, were she in his place. She was a Warden, and so was he; she had faith in his skills.

And so she focused on other things. Protecting the people under her charge seemed appropriate, even if they call her an Orlesian whore behind her back and were torn between resentment of her heritage and fear of her powers. The dwarves, at least, did not care about her accent so long as she had coin and lyrium sand aplenty, and the Vigil was slowly beginning to feel more like a defensible fortress and less like a tomb.

They were back at the Keep now, with two more Wardens increasing their ranks, and Magali had never before seen Joining rituals go so well as these. Six recruits and only one death was unheard of… perhaps it had something to do with the added drop of archdemon blood, rather than the thick sludge she vividly remembered choking down, concentrated from darkspawn taint alone. The Wardens hadn't had access to such blood in hundreds of years, and she had never read any records from that time. Later, once this Architect and this Mother had been put down, she would send word to Weisshaupt requesting any information the historians could provide— this was a theory she was eager to explore.

She was determined to rest in the Vigil for at least a day or two before setting off for the Blackmarsh— broodmothers were creatures of horror stories among the Wardens, nightmarish tales especially for the few women in the Order, and she had killed four of the sickening monsters simultaneously. Her skin felt too tight, her bones ached from cold she could not banish, and she was beginning to admit (at least to herself) that Kristoff's continued absence seemed more ominous by the day.

That was how Nathaniel found her, curled up on the chaise she'd had moved from one of the Vigil's many bedrooms and staring into the flickering hearth in her study. Her new robes were comfortable and fit well, but she'd discarded the ornate belt before lying down, and somehow the lack of that small scrap of cloth and metal made her feel rather exposed when the knock sounded on the doorframe. She had left the door mostly ajar, but still he lingered in the corridor, awaiting her leave to enter.

"Nathaniel," she said, her tone sharper than she'd intended, but his presence had startled her. He flinched ever so slightly, and she reined her voice in. "Is something the matter?"

Perhaps he noticed her unspoken apology, because his mouth twitched up into the ghost of a smile as he answered. "Other than the darkspawn, you mean? No, nothing's wrong." She sat up out of her recline, watching as his shuttered eyes travelled about the room. Then, before she could respond, he was speaking again. "This was my father's study. I certainly never thought I'd see Mother's sofa in here." Suddenly he truly was smiling, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes, and her breath caught unexpectedly in her throat. "It looks wonderful, actually. Definitely better than before."

Finally remembering her manners even as she lost her head, Magali waved her hand welcomingly. "Please, there is no need to lurk in hallways; come in. You will sit, yes?"

Only a small step into the room, and Nathaniel hesitated, gripping the doorframe with one hand like a tether. "You were resting— I do not wish to disturb you."

"_N'impor_—" She was weary, but she still found the word she needed. "Ah, I mean, that is nonsense. I would not have offered if I didn't want company."

"That's very true," he replied dryly, then slowly moved farther into the room. The desk had already been stripped of most things before she'd even arrived, and now her own books and knickknacks were scattered across the ebony surface. Touching nothing but the wood, just grazing it with the tip of one bare finger, Nathaniel took a deep breath before turning to face her again. "You've managed to make the place rather cosy, Commander. I am impressed."

Crossing her legs and lacing her own fingers over one knee, she observed him carefully. "Is it very strange for you to be here, Nathaniel?"

He blinked, but he seemed to be growing used to her bluntness. It was good, she thought, for he was a Warden under her command and she was not about to change.

"Yes, to be perfectly honest." Pausing, he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "This was my home, then it wasn't, and now… it almost feels like it could be again, in a different way. Does that make any sense? It is all very bizarre." Quirking her brow at his pensive tenor, she reached out and patted the far end of the chaise.

"Sit?" she asked again, noting the hint of colour crawling up his neck. If he was unwell in any way, she needed to know now, so when he looked about to refuse she upped her gamble. "Please, speak with me and help take my mind from my own homesickness."

"I— of course, Commander." As cautiously as she had seen him step around nearly invisible tripwires and vicious traps, Nathaniel padded over and perched on the very edge of the chaise. His posture was stiff, and his hands were braced on his thighs.

"Tell me," she began, allowing her voice to light up with a vague playfulness. "What is one absolutely frivolous thing you missed about Ferelden during your time in the Free Marches? Nothing significant— just something silly."

"Silly?" He looked almost afraid, but when she simply waited patiently, he seemed to gradually unclench. "Well, hm. I suppose… dogs. Real dogs, not the wiry curs they've got up there."

"You Fereldans and your hounds," she teased gently, shifting around until her bare feet were tucked up beside her. "It was a mage who first bred your mabari, you know."

He rolled his eyes, but it was not an unkind gesture. "Everyone knows that, my lady, especially in Ferelden." Little by little, he was leaning back in his seat. "We had a strong kennel here, before I left. I'm… not sure I want to know what happened to the dogs." His brows furrowed deeply, and she was surprised at her own pang of sadness.

"The ones who survived the civil war were taken in by Teyrn Cousland, as I understand it." Shrugging slightly at the obvious question in his gaze, she noticed (admittedly, not for the first time) the way the firelight brought out a rich chestnut sheen in his hair. "Varel told me. I had been told to expect dogs when I arrived, and their absence surprised me."

After a moment of silence, he cleared his throat. She became aware of why when his words still rasped out a bit thickly. "That's good to know. Thank you, Commander." Even when being silly, this man was so deathly serious. She could empathise— she'd felt trapped by her own bitterness ever since she'd seen the few ravaged bodies the darkspawn had left at the Vigil after that first attack. She had known some of those Wardens for years, had gone through her Joining with Patrice, and then to find them like _that, _or to _not_ find them—

Ah, much too serious. Nathaniel was speaking again anyway, so she pushed the dark memories aside.

"And if I may, what of you, my lady?" He smirked, just a little, and she knew what was coming. "I'm sure there are any number of frivolous things you miss from your extravagant homeland."

She was definitely in a mood for levity, and thus decided to play along. "Oh, would you like a list?" Leaning one arm against the back of the chaise, Magali began to count exaggeratedly on her fingers. "Shops that sell real silk; having my name pronounced correctly; men who do not stink of mud—"

"I do _not_ stink of mud," he all but squawked, and she did not stifle her laugh.

"No, you smell of leather and evergreen trees… and mud." His face twisted strangely, but there was still clearly humour there so she continued. "Now, do not interrupt. I also miss rosemary bushes growing along the road, dry feet, and good food."

He actually growled, and Magali was shocked at the small thrill the sound sent down her spine. She had not been lying when she'd admitted weeks before that she'd always been rather plain, but she had become a confident woman over the years, despite being no head-turning beauty. Serkan had called her a coquette, but that was a lifetime before; she was more than a little taken aback by the idea that she was now enjoying flirtatious banter with _this_ abrasive, foreign man (and not even exotically foreign, like an Antivan or a Rivaini).

"No," he said. "Just wait a minute— I'll not sit idly by while you insult my smell _and_ my cuisine. And we've got roses along roadsides."

"You see, that is one of the issues I speak of." She poked his shoulder lightly with her fingers, not hard enough that he'd even feel the pressure through his leathers. "Not knowing the difference between roses and rosemary is exactly why all your food tastes the same, and your sauces are all grey and thick. Preparing food should be an exquisite thing, like making love, not simply something you _do_." It was incredible to her that Fereldans flustered so easily, especially at the barest mention of sex, but it had not been her intention to put Nathaniel into fits. As a concession to his obvious embarrassment, she shifted the topic back solely to food. "You scoff, but I will show you. With a slow heat and enough wine, I can do things with _coq_ that would make your knees go weak."

She did not realise how terrible that had sounded, even when Nathaniel's face turned scarlet and he choked harshly.

* * *

She hadn't just— she couldn't mean—

He felt as though his face were on fire. She'd sounded so alluringly impish, but surely this slip of a mage was not so audacious as _that_… She was no shrinking violet, of course, but surely he must have misunderstood. A language barrier, perhaps? Was she simply teasing him?

"With _what_?" he asked faintly, trying desperately not to imagine exactly what knee-weakening activities might be involved in the kind of offer she had most certainly _not made_.

"Red wine, and _coq_," she said again, frankly and without hesitation. Her expression betrayed how confusing she found his reaction, and now he was convinced it had been a slip of the tongue.

Of her sweet little pink tongue— _No_.

She was making that rolling gesture with one hand, which he recognised as a sign she was attempting to find the correct words. Despite suffering occasional miscommunication like this one, Nathaniel was secretly quite impressed with her command of his language, especially for a woman who had never been out of Orlais before. His tutors had tried to drill Antivan into his skull as a boy, but he'd had no flare for it, and the mishmash of dialects scattered about the Free Marches still made little sense to him. He could only thank the Maker that somehow Ferelden had chosen what others called the common tongue as its primary language— there had always been at least a handful of people who understood him, no matter where he travelled.

"How is it you say," she began, then after a brief pause she snapped her fingers in triumph. "Ah! Chicken, but male. Rooster, yes?"

He couldn't help chuckling, and he hardly cared that it came out a bit breathlessly. It was just his luck that his tough leather leggings had begun to feel rather uncomfortable during this whole fiasco, but they did hide a multitude of sins and for that he was incredibly grateful.

"Rooster, yes," he echoed dutifully, ducking his head when the laughter threatened to bubble up again. Her eyes were boring into him like daggers, which was not unexpected— she hated to be caught unawares or uninformed, and Nathaniel knew that. He wasn't exactly sure the best way to explain, but he also knew she was going to force him anyway.

"Why are you—" She stopped short, lips still slightly parted, and he watched with fascination as two small spots of pink darkened her pale cheeks. "I didn't… oh."

"We also call roosters _cocks_," he assured her, allowing only the barest hint of mirth to lace his words. "There's simply more room for, well, misunderstanding, I suppose."

Her embarrassment was almost_ adorable_, for lack of a better word, and Nathaniel was caught up short by how much fondness he had developed for this woman. She terrified him, and when she wasn't doing that she was entrancing him, and he felt as if he'd left a significant portion of his good sense somewhere in the Wildervale.

They had much more pressing matters to which they must attend, and his instincts were screaming that something vast and dangerous was already in motion somewhere in the creeping shadows. There was little time for dallying about, but that didn't stop his body from reminding his brain exactly how long it had been since a woman had evoked such feelings in him.

Inhaling slowly through her long, narrow nose, she tilted her head to rest on the tallest part of the sofa's curved back. "You would not know it," she muttered, closing her eyes. "But I am actually quite eloquent in Orlesian."

He wanted to touch her face, to feel the softness of her skin and the heat of her flush, and so he clenched his fists hard. "You are tired, and you usually speak the King's tongue better than many Fereldans."

"I miss the sounds of home," she continued softly, as if he hadn't spoken at all, and suddenly something completely idiotic possessed him.

"Teach me." It was a hopeless enterprise before it even began, he knew, but it did draw her attention back in a rather amiable way. When she looked at him, clearly puzzled by the request, he elaborated. "Just something simple I can say in Orlesian. My tutors were unsurprisingly mute on the subject of your melodious language."

"Melodious, hm?" She was smiling a little, tracing invisible patterns across the sofa's plush upholstery with one fingernail. "All right. I will ask how you are feeling. _Salut_, Nathaniel. _Ça va?_"

She spoke slowly, but the words still flowed together like warm honey— sweet and smooth, but seemed as though they'd be sticky in his mouth. Clearing his throat, he shifted around to face her more fully. "And how would I respond? I'm, ah, I'm feeling quite content, actually."

"_Bien_," she said. "Or _tres bien_, if you are feeling very well. _Mal_, if your mood is bad, or you are unwell. It is simple, no?"

He knew a hint when he heard one; she wanted him to try for himself now. He was going to sound like a fool, but he pressed on regardless. She was watching him, but instead of the flinty gleam he had come to expect, her eyes were warm and amused.

"Sah-loo, Magali," he enunciated carefully, aware only after the fact that he'd used her name without any honorific or title at all. He wasn't sure he'd ever done that before, at least not to her face. "Saw vah?"

"_Bien, merci_." Her smile showed a hint of teeth, and it was lovely. "Your accent could use a bit of work, but that was a fine effort."

A measure of pride curled in his belly and seemed to expand outwards into the room, warmer even than the glow of the small fire. Andraste's grace, was she _flirting_ with him?

"_My_ accent needs work?" He tilted his head quizzically, feeling suddenly bold. "So says the woman who makes the seneschal shiver every time she rolls his name over her tongue."

"_What?_ I— what do you mean?" He had been sure she'd noticed _that_, at least, but her reaction clearly informed him he'd overestimated her powers of observation. Varel didn't seem to know what to think of his new, unusual arlessa, but for a man who remembered the Orlesian occupation, the seneschal often appeared surprisingly intrigued.

"Your accent is very… exotic." He tried to remain diplomatic; it hadn't been his intention to make her uncomfortable. "Most of the Orlesians still in Ferelden have been here for years, but—"

"Yes," she cut in, and he knew enough of bitterness to hear it clearly dripping from her otherwise flat words. "I sound like a chevalier fresh from Val Royeaux. This is difficult for your people to accept, I know."

Holding out one hand in defence against any perceived slight, he then risked touching the sleeve of her robes. The fabric was soft, some fine weave he didn't quite recognise, but he was much more interested in the way she did not pull away.

"That's not what I meant," he said, keeping his demeanour calm despite the hint of danger and the warm arm under his fingers. "And trust me; no one would mistake you for a chevalier, my lady."

"That is a compliment, I suppose?"

He could seize upon the sarcasm and feint, or take advantage of the opportunity— regardless of the direction life had taken him, Nathaniel Howe had never been a coward.

Meeting her gaze very steadily, he nodded. "Yes, it was. Though not the best I could think of, I will admit."

"Not the—" Her self-deprecation notwithstanding, he had rarely seen her stumble over her words so spectacularly as she had during this conversation. The idea that his attentions might be flustering such a clever, powerful woman was an extremely attractive concept. "The best?" Before he could clarify, her eyes narrowed into icy slits. "You are making fun of me."

"_You_ are suspicious and mistrustful," he replied evenly. He would not retreat, not yet. "But also very beautiful, and I am not making fun of you."

Silence was perhaps the best response he could have expected, given the temperament of the woman before him. With cautious optimism, he waited, watching.

After a few frozen moments, her gaze flitted to where his hand rested lightly on her arm, then snapped quickly back to his face in undisguised shock.

"You—" A sharp move, and she was free from his touch, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "It was not so very long ago that you were trying to murder me, and now you call me beautiful. You snipe and you snarl, and now you give me sweet words? What is this?"

"I'm not entirely sure." It was a blunt answer, but true. He knew she would accept nothing less than the complete truth, and he would not risk any omission. If he was bold, she _might_ still reject him, but if he danced around the issue she would strike him down. Perhaps even literally, given the uncertain kind of luck that followed him about— he did not relish the thought of incurring her wraith any more than necessary.

When it came to women, he was not by nature an especially forward man. He struggled with finding a sentiment to express that allowed him to remain mannerly, while also explaining himself in a frank manner. The more time he wasted, the angrier he risked making her.

"You are unlike any woman I've ever known," he said quietly. "And the longer we travel together, the more I come to realise that is a very appealing thing."

"You are serious?" She sounded as though he'd just thrown off a magical cloak and revealed himself to be the Architect in disguise. "You are _mad_—" One slender hand flew to the side of her head, her fingers tapping sharply against her skull. "Unhinged. You are not serious."

If he weren't certain it would earn him a slap, Nathaniel might have laughed at the incredulous display. "I'm always serious, as the other members of our little band are so often eager to point out. Is the idea that I might care for you so very terrible?"

It was a thoughtless question that left him wide open for scorn, for the most painful kind of rejection, and he regretted it almost immediately. It had been too long since he'd felt anything like this for anyone; he felt like a bumbling boy again, kicking his foot as he confessed to the cook's daughter that he thought she was pretty.

"_Care_ for me?" This had been a horrible mistake. Maker, he'd count himself lucky if he escaped with his skin. "I—" When she cleared her throat unexpectedly, he nearly flinched, but then she continued in a much more measured tone. Such an attempt to restrain her shock could be a very good sign, or a very bad one. "I do not— that is, I am unsure how to respond, Nathaniel."

That she would even _admit_ her uncertainty— that she did not dismiss him outright— Nathaniel felt a glimmer of hope bloom in his chest.

Very carefully, he lifted one corner of his mouth in what was almost a smile. "Just… consider what I've said, my lady. That is all I ask."

Her expression was nearly inscrutable, revealing nothing of her thoughts except the intense scrutiny he could feel sharply, as if it were boring into his soul. When she glared like this, unyielding and inescapable, he sometimes wondered if perhaps she were actually a blood mage— would he know it if she had him in her thrall?

"You are an unusual man," she said finally, curiously, and he sent a prayer of thanks that the silence had been broken, scarce moments before his need to squirm would have overcome him. Then she licked her bottom lip, and it was like lightening sizzling in his gut. "An intriguing man. I will consider what you have said."

He did not quite trust his voice, so he merely nodded.

And then, because she was a woman of some cruelty, Magali began speaking again of Orlais and Ferelden and homesickness, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

And Nathaniel, because he was both a gentleman and a fool, did not think to excuse himself. No, instead he sat with her for nearly another hour, putting wood on the fire when it began to burn down to coals and fighting valiantly to keep his attention on her words.

He listened to her words, answering appropriately, and he did not stare at her lips and wonder how they might taste. He did not allow his gaze to stray to the tight, unforgiving knot of her hair and think of how very soft it looked when draped down around her shoulders. He did not spare a glance at the way the firelight glimmered off the ornamentation of her robes.

He did, for one moment, imagine what it might be like to cradle her gently curved jaw in his hand, but there was a lingering trace of fear that she would somehow _know_ his mind had gone such places. It was agony.

But her occasional smiles were, perhaps, slightly more intimate than they had been. He had not yet decided if that were enough, but it was a beginning.

* * *

_AN: Seriously, littleblackdog? A cock joke? Yes, a cock joke. Whu-bam._

_There will be one more chapter (with Nathaniel lovings; no extra charge), but it will not likely come as quickly as this one did. Wait_—_ come as quickly? Was that another frigging cock joke? I don't even know anymore; I just want some coq au vin.  
_


	3. Chapter 3

_AN: Note the change in rating. Noted? Good._

* * *

Wherever they were, the bed was miles too hard and the room stunk. This was all Serkan's fault; she _knew_ it. The wily, filthy bastard hardly cared that she was one ill-timed word away from killing him for dragging her about to every damn hovel of a tavern between Montsimmard and Jader, sniffing about for any trickling rumours about this Blight that was brewing to the east. Her back ached, her head was pounding, and she _hated_ him so much—

She could feel his hands stroking her head, still broad and rough even when they moved with the lightest of touches, and without even opening her strangely heavy eyes, she was able to work up a decent snarl.

"What in Andraste's name do you think you're doing?" She could smell the familiar blend of blood and magic that clung to the man like a thick cloak, but it was stronger than usual— no, he _wouldn't_. "You son of a _whore_," she hissed, but the more she tried to struggle the tighter she was held, and the more she realised her muscles felt odd, weak and watery. "I told you before I'd _gut_ you if you did this again—"

She heard a man's voice, but it was not Serkan, and somehow that made her slightly less afraid. What it said for the complicated relationship she and her mentor shared that she was more at ease awaking in the unexplained grip of a stranger, well, that was something she had stopped considering long ago. It took her a moment to understand the words being said, but something about the foreign voice gave her pause.

"Safe," the man was saying, in the common tongue she realised. "You're safe, Magali. Calm yourself."

"Maker's breath, woman." Another voice, another man, and she fought to keep her breathing even. There was something wrong with her body, some injury that made more than the slightest movement feel _impossible_, but if these men meant her harm she would maintain the element of surprise. She wouldn't need to move very much to knock them back with a blast of willpower. "Do you have any idea what she said, Nathaniel?"

"No," the man called Nathaniel answered sharply, and it was his hands that held her in place, with one arm wrapped around her chest and the other cradling her cheek. Now that her thoughts were clearing, she became aware that it was not a pillow, but a pair of firm thighs upon which her head rested. There was no mattress under her back, but some cold, wet surface that smelt of rotting vegetation. "Just finish healing her."

"Right." She was being healed? For what? Where in the blighted pit was she?

The cool tingle of magic that skated along her nerves made her gasp, and why hadn't she realised how very much her back _hurt_ until just then?

"Maker have mercy," she whimpered, unable to stop the desperate plea from escaping her lips. Something had been _terribly_ wrong, and she could feel every pull and scrape as bones knit back together and torn muscles mended. Whoever this second man was, his healing ability was extremely impressive.

Finally, after what felt like years, the magic faded and she had the strength to open her eyes. The strong-featured face that hovered above her was drawn with concern, framed by a drape of dark hair, and she _knew_ him.

"Nathaniel," she said, and it meant something to her again. Her mind was clearing, fuzzy memories returning like bubbles breaking on the surface of a pond. The Blackmarsh, darkspawn, the Fade… that wretched _bitch_ of a baroness. With some effort, she found the words she needed. "What happened?"

There was a harsh, exhausted laugh from the direction of her feet— Anders. "You got crushed by a demon," the mage explained, and she felt fingers rub her knee cheekily. "Can you feel that?"

Well-meaning concern and a bit of lechery: she recalled Anders quite well. "Yes."

"Excellent." There was a pained groan, then a muffled thump. "Try not to move about too much quite yet; bits and bobs still patching together, you know how it is. I'm just going to pass out here for a minute, but we'll both be good to go shortly, all right?"

Nathaniel's hand was warm against her face, and the touch stopped her from nodding unthinkingly. "I— yes, Anders. Thank you."

"Mmhm," came the reply, already beginning to mumble with sleep. "Ah, think nothing of it."

Then there was only Nathaniel, still staring down at her with obvious concern. She blinked at him, remembering something else. "Where is the Spirit of Justice?"

"Just over there." Nathaniel tilted his head to the right, and she hadn't realised how rough his voice sounded, as if he'd been shouting. "Contemplating his hands, I think. Seeing you injured apparently drove home some of the more… unpleasant realities of his current condition." He paused, very purposefully catching her eyes again. "_Ça va_?"

Laughing hurt, but not nearly as much as it would have a short while before, she was certain. She would ask Anders as soon as they were underway, but it felt as though the demon had broken many of her ribs, and perhaps done some significant damage to her neck or her spine. She could taste blood, but only slightly.

"_Tres bien_," she murmured, suddenly feeling stupidly giddy. That had been close, too close, but she was still _alive_. "If I look even half so good as I feel, I am shocked you can contain yourself, dear man."

The strong scent of evergreens wafted from his bare fingers, and she did not object when they caressed her brow gently. How she had confused this man with Serkan, she would never know.

"It is a tempting thing," he replied quietly, with only a hint of relieved humour. "And it's _dear_ now, is it? How hard did you hit your head?"

The lingering pain was receding, slowly but surely, and she wiggled her toes experimentally. She was reminded exactly how damp the Blackmarsh was when the discomfort of wet buttocks and sodden robes quickly moved to the fore of her mind.

"Not hard enough to bear this mire much longer." She tried to shift around, perhaps to sit up a bit, but the arm looped under her bosom held her like iron.

"I believe you're meant to stay still, my lady."

"I am _fine_—"

"Then you're fine to stay just where you are." Nathaniel's tone was firm, almost harsh, and it raised her hackles even as it made something ridiculous and girlish flutter in her stomach. "And you can snarl and snap, and order me about all you like, but I am not moving until I know it's safe."

A pained groan nearby interrupted her before she could bite out a suitable retort. "Andraste's _arse_— get a bloody room, you two." Anders sounded irritated, and she could keenly imagine his exhaustion. "There truly is no rest for the wicked. Come on, then; let's see how you're doing, since I'm obviously not going to be allowed a proper _quiet_ lie-down."

It was incredibly uncomfortable to submit to such an examination, but she bore it in stoic silence. Anders poked and prodded, bending her legs carefully and digging his fingers into her hips, and all the while she glared defiantly up at Nathaniel's coolly composed face. It was a testament to Anders' fatigued state that he didn't say more than a few cursory words as his hands slid slowly up her sides, squeezing gently here and there, then very cautiously turned her neck. When she didn't feel more than a few twinges, a tension bled from her of which she'd only been partially aware.

Grinning wanly, Anders sat back on his heels in his crouch beside her elbow. "Good as new, more or less. Could we get out of this blasted cesspit and go home now? Thanks."

She wasn't steady on her feet quite yet, they discovered, but that was hardly surprising given the grievous nature of her injuries. Ignorance never did anyone any good, and so it was that they'd not even made it out of sight of the abandoned town before she'd gotten answers out of her fellow mage.

"I'm not sure what you expected," Anders was muttering, dragging his feet along the winding, overgrown path. Ser Pounce-a-lot was peering intently out of the weathered bag hanging from his shoulder, swatting ineffectually at the few buzzing insects that darted about the marsh. "When a big, nasty monster grabs you and tosses you about like a doll, things get broken— _important _things. You're lucky you didn't get ripped in half, and wait, why am I not getting carried too? I did an _incredibly_ good job piecing you back together, and I think I've got a blister on my heel."

"I am not being carried," she snapped, even as Nathaniel's arm tightened around her waist. The man was a solid support at her side, and she leaned heavily against him with every wobbly step. "And if you are suffering so, perhaps Justice would indulge you."

"I could attempt it, if you wished." The spirit sounded wary, but not at all sarcastic in the offer. He was already very graciously carrying her staff strapped to his back. "I am not yet sure of the limitations of this body, but the mage did an honourable thing by saving another's life. That is to be commended."

Anders was peering over at the reanimated corpse, likely taking in the flaking skin and stench of death that emanated from the spirit's encasement of putrid flesh. "Ah, _no_— you know what? I'm good."

"You're sure?" Nathaniel inquired with mock sincerity, pausing long enough for her to step cautiously around a fallen log. "You've got a blister, after all."

Shooting the man a dark look, Anders readjusted his pack with a huff, and the little cat meowed a sharp, startled sound. "Yeah, ha-ha. See who comes running the next time you've got a sword poking out of your belly, you smarmy bastard."

* * *

She seemed very delicate, even though he knew she was not, and Nathaniel did his level best not to behave as if he thought otherwise. Having her cling to his side, tucked under the edge of his cloak to help keep her warm in her soggy, soiled robes, was agreeable enough that he was loath to do anything that might make her pull away. She might still have been swaying and staggering on weakened legs, but she was mulish enough to refuse his help should the very winds shift.

They were out of the marsh now, nearly back to the tiny campsite where the rest of their party waited. Velanna and Sigrun had likely been rather surprised to see Oghren stumbling back alone some time before, probably yammering on nonsensically about the Fade and talking corpses. Nathaniel was looking forward to introducing their newest companion, for he had little doubt the women would assume the drink-addled dwarf was suffering from some manner of hallucination.

He was not looking forward to giving up his willing cargo, but that could hardly be helped.

"Thank you for your help," she murmured eventually, just as their circle of tents came into view over the next knoll. If either Anders or Justice heard the unanticipated expression of gratitude, neither reacted. "You know, I have, ah… considered."

Suddenly all legs and little grace, Nathaniel tripped over absolutely nothing, but managed to right himself before any harm was done. She was able to slip safely out of his hold during the lurching, and now stood barely a step away, watching with obvious amusement sparkling behind her eyes. Her milky skin retained a sickly pallor, however, and sweat beaded along her hairline.

"Have you indeed," he said too curtly, trying to ignore the knowing wink Anders graced him with over one shoulder as both mage and spirit continued on towards the nearby camp. "Just now, or have you been mulling for the past fortnight?"

She crossed her arms, and her pained wince nearly made him rush to her side again. Her next words, however, stamped out any thought of chivalry. "Do you think me so very fickle, that I would not have given your question any thought?"

"I—" He wasn't entirely certain whether she sounded angry or hurt. Either, really, was problematic. "No. No, I don't— but I think if you had absolutely no interest, you would have told me so before now."

"_Interest_ does not come before duty, Nathaniel."

"Ah." It was as he'd feared, of course. "And I suppose your duty does not include… caring for me."

He had meant to say it that time— since their discussion in her study, he had come to better terms with the concept that he did feel something rather serious for this woman. She had a strength of will about her, a _fire_ that drew him like an ill-fated moth; if she were going to refuse him, let her understand his sincerity first.

She shook her head slowly, frowning. "My only duty is to seek out darkspawn and destroy them. As is yours, Warden." His flat _of course, Commander_ died on his lips when she continued, stepping impossibly closer. "So you must know that anything between us can never interfere with that duty, no matter what. Can you promise me that?"

For a moment, he thought she must have switched to Orlesian. Then, abruptly, her words registered.

"I can," he replied roughly, his throat having gone dry. When she touched his cheek with the cool pads of her fingers, he swallowed painfully. "I do promise you that, Magali."

"Good." She looked ashen, nearly ready to faint away, but that was not the only reason he curled one arm around her back and drew her near. The others could see them clearly from camp, he knew, and this was hardly the time, but her thumb was brushing against his bottom lip, and he could not bring himself to care about anything else.

The kiss was a battle, when he had intended merely a taste. Nevertheless, he retained enough of his mind not to squeeze her soft, lithe body even as she opened her mouth to him with a long, captivating moan. One of her hands was gripping tight in his hair, holding his head still as she slid her sinuous little tongue along his, while the other kneaded the muscle of his upper arm. He had expected the sweetness, but it was mingled with the sharp, metallic tang of blood, and when he pushed back, attempting to take more control, she whimpered.

Breathing hard, he pulled away with wavering reluctance, apprehension about her injuries blooming. "Are, are you all right?"

"Oh _yes_," she whispered throatily, sending a bolt of heat directly to his groin. He could feel that most of her weight was propped up on his frame, even as she looked up at him with such raw, devastatingly tempting _want_. "If I did not feel so miserably frail, oh _mon grand_, the things I would do to you."

It was _unfair, _and he felt like a slavering lecher, but the images such a declaration evoked made him growl harshly. Her answering shiver was almost more than he could bear, but with a great, heaving sigh he leaned down and rested his forehead chastely against her shoulder.

"You did this intentionally." The usually smooth knot of her hair was coming loose, still tangled with a few small sticks and leaves, and dried flecks of mud darkened the coppery red. He remembered, quite vividly, the unnatural, twisted position of her hips when they'd finally been able to approach her motionless body, after that raging demon was put down. "You _would_ choose now to tell me this, you insufferable nymph."

"Surely—" He could feel her fingers tug at his braids, her lips nuzzling against his ear, but he could not bring himself to move away. "I am not testing the great restraint of the Howe, am I? You are a man of such stoic manners—"

"You are wicked," he rumbled, and risked pressing his mouth to her throat if only to shut her up, feeling her quickened heartbeat as he scraped his teeth lightly along her collar.

She cried out softly, words he did not understand, and sagged heavily in his arms. "Maker _damn_ it! My legs, Nathaniel, I'm going to fall—"

"You're not going to fall," he interrupted, tightening his grip around her just slightly for emphasis. "But you do need to get to camp and rest. We will… continue this later, if my lady wishes."

Whatever strength had allowed her to stay upright for as long as she had seemed about ready to desert, and she did not object to being carried for the final short hike to camp. Her arms were looped about his neck, her knees tucked against his chest, but she kept her head as high and proud as he'd expected when they approached the others.

"Everything all right?" Anders glanced up from his exhausted sprawl near the smouldering fire, his tone thick with suggestion. "Didn't _overexert _yourself, did you Commander?"

"Not yet," Nathaniel said very quietly, earning himself a heated look from the woman cradled in his arms. Sigrun was already in the process of laying out a blanket across the grass, and he nodded his thanks to the dwarf as he set Magali down gently on the dark grey wool.

"I am filthy and sore," she groaned, squeezing his hand briefly as he extracted himself and made to stand. It was not an invitation to sit, but it felt almost like an expression of affection. "But I am in one relatively whole piece."

"I would've been really upset if you died before me, Commander." Sigrun was grinning from her nearby squat, with elbows resting casually on her knees, but her tone held an undercurrent of real concern. Magali could be a hard woman, but she had managed to earn no small amount of admiration and even friendliness from the Wardens under her command. It was certainly nothing like what Nathaniel had expected when she'd first studied him appraisingly, condescendingly, through the bars of his cell.

Velanna was leaning over a large pot at the edge of the fire, simmering away with something that smelled faintly of fish and onion, while Oghren was sitting close by with his greaves and boots off, picking at his toenails and leering at the elf's posterior. Grubby dwarven feet did not smell nearly as appetising as their impending supper, but at least Oghren was not attempting to help with the cooking again.

The Spirit of Justice was standing some distance away from the rest of them, staring at the campsite of living beings with a mournful expression twisting his grisly features— it was a sentiment Nathaniel was nearly convinced the spirit did not realise he was projecting. A fade spirit trapped in the body of a dead Grey Warden… their band was growing stranger by the day, truly.

Magali rolled her shoulders slowly, tugging uncomfortably at her filthy robes. "I will do my very best never to upset you so," she said, sending Sigrun a flicker of a smile. "When will supper be ready, Velanna?"

"The roots will not take much longer to soften," came the answer, and Velanna only glanced up for a moment before pulling some small, dark leaves from her belt pouch and tossing them in the steaming, brownish liquid in the pot. "Less than a half-hour, but it will keep if you're anxious to clean yourself up."

He had no inkling of the dangerous direction Magali's thoughts had travelled until she spoke, with enflaming words that belied her matter-of-fact tone. "Ah, there is a river nearby, as I recall, and if I do not go soon I know I will fall asleep first. You are not averse to assisting me again, are you Nathaniel?"

The tittering and wolf-whistles that followed were barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears. Only a short while before, that request would have stirred something hot in his gut, but he would not have truly assumed it was more than an innocent call for for aid; the Commander was still unsteady, after all. Now, however…

She was staring up at him, waiting, and there was a definite challenge crackling the air between them. The knowledge that she _did_ want him, the memory of her needy cry quivering under his lips— these things made him keen to meet such a challenge head on.

"As you wish, Commander." She was still healing, he knew, but that did not stop his fingers from itching to explore every inch of her. Instead, he extended one hand in offer.

Very delicately, she curled her hand around his, allowing him to pull her carefully back to her feet. Had he not been wearing his leathers, her bosom brushing against his chest would have been agonizing— as it was, he was simply left to imagine the sensation.

Her arm came around his shoulders, and it was with little obvious strain that he scooped her up once again. Her eyes were gleaming mischievously. "I would hate to survive being mauled by a manifested pride demon just to drown in some trickling stream." She pointed in the direction of her tent. "My bag, if you please."

He wasn't about to speak any more than necessary, especially while still in camp. All he needed was for the others to have more fodder for vexing him, especially Anders and the dwarves. With a nod, he retrieved the bag with some haste, then strode off in the direction of the river without further discussion.

It was evening, with the sky beginning to darken to orange and crimson near the western horizon, and this close to the coast he knew that any river they found would likely be quite chilly. Nonetheless, if the lady wished to bathe he would indulge her.

"Did I embarrass you, Nathaniel?" Her abrupt question startled him, in part because his mind was wandering traitorously to thoughts of wet, glistening skin.

"You know you did," he muttered almost crossly, and he could already hear the sound of water running close by. "And you're thrilled about it, as well."

She laughed— a soft, tinkling thing against the stillness of the trees and babbling stream. "I will be thrilled to wash the mud out of my smallclothes, and _you_ will enjoy washing my hair, I think."

To his credit, Nathanial did not stumble. "I'm— _what_?" Smallclothes, washing, and lovely long hair… she was trying to kill him, he realised suddenly. Only a few hours before she laid broken and barely clinging to life, and now she was pressing him for such intimacy when she _knew_ her health was still fragile.

"My hair. Only if you wish it, I suppose." They had arrived at the bank of the clear, slow-moving river, and by the rich greenery and the slightly salty tang Nathaniel guessed it was part of a delta not far removed from the sea. He lowered her carefully into standing, incredibly unsure of what would be an appropriate step. He knew what he wanted, but also knew he could rein himself in and wait.

She didn't continue with her teasing words, but neither did she ask him to leave or even to turn as she began deftly undoing her robes. She was standing close enough that her hands brushed against him as she slipped free of her belt, but he was hardly about to step back when she was swaying so dangerously.

With a long-suffering sigh, he reached out and rested one hand on her hip. "I told you, you are _not_ going to fall. Do try not to make a liar of me so soon, if you please."

"Then help," she murmured, and before he could protest she caught up his free hand and guided it to the tiny button that kept her collar closed. He hesitated only briefly before doing as he was bid, but after flicking open that bit of metal, there were no other fasteners or laces that he could see.

His thoughts were preoccupied, certainly, but no so much that he didn't notice the hands stealing up to unfasten the clasp of his cloak. When the heavy wool puddled on the grass at his feet, Nathaniel was struck by a pang of doubt.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," he chided, grabbing the questing fingers that had moved on to the buckles of his quiver. "And you're driving me to distraction."

"Take my robes off." It was if he hadn't spoken, and now his leggings were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. "Quite simple; up and over."

Black, foul mud had indeed seeped down to her skin, smeared across the backs of her smooth thighs and up over her bottom. The generous curve of her hip, something he'd only imagined when wrapped up under the layers of her close-fitted robes, led his foolishly wandering eye up over the soft, feminine line of her belly, her ribs, oh Maker her _breasts_—

"I will need you to help me to the water." She was smiling impishly; he could see that _now_. "And stop that." Her hands moved with surprising strength, prying apart his painfully tight fists, and he did not resist when she brought his slack palms up to rest lightly on her bare sides. With only the ends of his fingers exposed in his gloves, Nathaniel was still struck dumb by the velvety suppleness of her skin.

She was touching his bracers now, running her hands along the hardened leather as she leaned forward and pressed her nearly naked form flush against him, and Nathaniel could feel the knife's edge he teetered upon quite keenly. Her expression was much too serene for a woman stoking such a fire in him.

"Here—" When she reached carefully behind her head, arching her back just slightly, Nathaniel forced his gaze to stay steady on her face. A moment later, and her hair spilled free with a small shake. "Will you keep my hairpins in your belt pouch, please?"

"Yes," he rasped, but before he could reach for the items, her arm was snaking down between their bodies, and he couldn't stop the moan from shuddering out of him. He _needed_ to kiss her again, to take possession of her sweet, smirking mouth, but then he would be truly lost. Instead, he clenched his jaw so hard his teeth nearly creaked.

Her hand was still wrapped around his belt, and with an insistent tug she stepped back towards the river. "Come, then."

And of course he went willingly— there were a vast number of reasons why he would not leave her then, no matter how incredibly perilous it might be to stay. There were a few large, relatively flat rocks peeking up out of the water near the bank, and it was with great care that he eased her down to sit upon one.

Years before, through a rather convoluted series of events, he, the knights, and the other squires he travelled with in the Free Marches had found themselves at a squalid dockside tavern in Wyeome. He'd been barely more than a boy, just turned sixteen, and some Rivaini sailors were telling wild, enthralling tales in return for flagons of cheap ale. Stories of pirates, treasures, and bawdy women mostly, but there'd been one man, quieter than the rest, who told tales of fabled creatures that supposedly lurked about the strange, northern waters. With his deep, rumbling voice he spoke of vicious watersnakes, longer than a galleon and able to swallow a man whole; the strange ghost-lights that lured foolish ships into rocky shoals; and of the beautiful, deadly sirens of the Nocen Sea.

He'd been a sombre enough lad that he hadn't let the depths of his fascination show at the time, but seeing this woman now, reclining so enticingly on her stone perch with a cascade of tangled hair falling loosely over her bare skin— Nathaniel finally understood why sailors feared such creatures.

"My soap?" The question startled him out of his dangerous reflections, but he was able to keep his hands steady as he passed her the small canvas bag that had hung forgotten from his shoulder. After a moment of rummaging, the bag was set safely upon another rock, and Magali dipped one foot into the water with a quiet hiss. "Cold," she murmured, but then the scrap of cloth barely covering her breasts fell away, and Nathaniel shifted his focus very firmly to the cloudless sky.

She would make a commotion if she began to drown, he was sure.

Some time later, though not nearly long enough for the pressure between his legs to subside, he heard a splash loud enough to draw his gaze back. The water was lapping teasingly at her collarbone, and it was clear enough in the rich evening sunlight that it did very little to obscure the fair form beneath. She slapped the river's surface again, and Nathaniel was pleased to see that at least some the unhealthy strain around her eyes and mouth had relaxed.

"Bring me my robes, if you would," she asked, motioning to the garment still lying discarded in the grass. "I'll have nothing to wear tomorrow if I do not wash them now." Her smallclothes, top and bottom, were already scrubbed clean and spread out beside her bag and the utter _nakedness_ that image implied was incredibly enticing.

He didn't speak, but he did retrieve the robes, crouching on the stony bank as he held them out to her. When she grabbed hold of his wrist rather than fabric, he tensed, preparing himself to be tumbled unceremoniously into the water, but she merely held him there.

"I've already washed my hair, so you need not worry." Disappointment settled unexpectedly in his chest, but then she was reaching up to touch his jaw, and her breasts rose free from the water, pert and glistening, and stiff from the cold.

His resolve was slipping away like grains of sand, and without conscious thought he was leaning down to meet her, catching her mouth hard with his own. The robes were forgotten, dropping onto the shore with a soft, wet thud, and her flesh was slick and willing under his hands. His grip on her waist was too hard, but she still scrambled for a grip on his shoulders to pull herself closer. With a harsh groan, he lifted her towards him while simultaneously shifting to fall back on his arse, bringing her dripping, chilled body onto his lap.

He fought to keep his touches gentle, but she was already arching so wantonly, straddling his hips and scraping her nails across his scalp—

His cloak was not so very far away, and with more presence of mind than he thought he still possessed, Nathaniel dragged them both across the grass towards it. She gasped when he tumbled her onto the rough wool, but it was better than river rocks and grass, and now he had her body laid out before him like a feast.

Leathers could not unbuckle quickly enough, not with such a woman waiting and touching her own bosom like _that_ while she watched him struggle. He nearly wrenched his arm yanking himself free of his cuirass, and his leggings barely made it down past his knees before he was upon her again, but he did not go so far as to plunge into her like some kind of animal. His mouth replaced her fingers, suckling desperately at her breasts, and she keened sharply at the contact, drawing out his name like a prayer.

He had wanted to taste every inch of her, but to attempt such a thing at the moment would have killed him, he was sure. There would, Maker willing, be other opportunities for such thorough explorations.

There were certain pleasures that would not wait, however, and with eagerness burning through his muscles, Nathaniel began to trail kisses down her stomach. Her hips jerked with shocked delight when he reached his destination, and her sweet cries became louder and more frantically broken as he indulged himself, revelling in the pressure of her heels digging into his back.

They were both trembling by the time he crawled back up to her flushed face, but Nathaniel was drawn taut with need. She kissed him, whispering delicious sounds he thought might be words against his mouth, then sighed with quiet satisfaction as he finally slipped smoothly inside her waiting heat.

He was at the very end of his tether, clinging to the last vestiges of control, but the rhythm he set was not as fierce as the fire in his veins demanded. He felt feverish, with his head cradled in the curve of her throat, and every small sound of pleasure she made sizzled across his skin. Then, when they were sliding together with mingled sweat and lingering traces of river water, she began to roll her hips _just so_, and he was lost.

He couldn't have stopped the snapping of his own hips if a horde of darkspawn descended upon them, and it was exactly _that_ sort of sentiment he had promised her he would not allow to overcome him. He hardly thought she would have reacted much better, regardless, not with the way her hands were digging so hard into his neck and shoulders, urging him on with desperate pleas that only very occasionally formed into _faster_, _more_, and _please_.

Then she was stiffening, clamping around him like _paradise_, and he felt his own release scorching through him only a few moments later.

The cloak was wet and grass was cool against his back when he rolled over, panting hard, but the woman curling herself against his side was gloriously warm and pliant. She was nuzzling his neck, nibbling under his ear, and Nathaniel was utterly captivated even in his languor.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, but the twist of shame he felt at his lapse in self-control did not seem strong enough to latch on. Her answering chuckle, soft and sleepy, ghosted across his throat.

"Perfect." Some minor shifting about, and she had her arm slung across his chest, with her chin propped up upon it. Having so recently seen her twisted about in bliss, Nathaniel did not resist the urge to stroke his fingers along her cheek, brushing a few strands of hair aside. She was striking, indeed. "Other than the rustic accommodations, I am not sure I have ever been better."

"Is that so?" It was pathetic how such an off-hand comment could make his heart swell in his chest. "You may need another bath, you know."

"A nap first, I think." The feel of her body sliding atop his stirred things in his belly that made him feel like an especially lewd youth, but then she pulled the edge of the cloak up over her naked back with a sigh. "And perhaps you might wash my hair next time, hm?"

Still-damp tendrils already wound around his fingers, and he was careful to avoid snagging tangles as he caressed the loose curls affectionately. "As my lady wishes," he replied softly, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead even as her eyes drifted slowly closed.

END

* * *

_AN: Oh man, Nathaniel is so hot that Word kept crashing. I am completely and hilariously serious about that, as well. _

_I really like Magali, and the interesting POV of writing as an Orlesian Warden. This is probably not the last story I'll write that will feature her (and maybe one day I'll write something with Serkan_—_ he had sex with a desire demon once, you know). It's certainly not the last Nathaniel piece I'll do, I imagine.  
_


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